


Ascendant

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: BDSM, Canon Era, Food, M/M, Non-Sexual Kink, Sub!Athos, kink bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 12:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1469977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Left to his own devices, Porthos suspects Athos would always drink too much and eat too little; and as someone who grew up treasuring every morsel, he can't really understand it, never will. But what he does know is that Athos will eat for him, because Porthos wants him to; and the heady cocktail of power and tenderness this knowledge fills him with is overwhelming.</i>
</p><p>Kink Bingo fill: food.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ascendant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sevenswells](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenswells/gifts).



> Content warnings: This fic features control of eating habits within a dominant/submissive framework. There is one brief mention of vomiting.
> 
> For [sevenswells](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/sevenswells), who was both responsible for the prompt, and also advised me on food and eating in 17th century France.

What makes Porthos a good soldier is that he still expects everything in life to be a battle.

What throws him is when something that should be hard is easy.

And though it took him years to understand what Athos needed to break out of his drunken, depressive cycles, once he'd finally figured it out, well – the simple touch of Porthos' hand and the right tone of voice has achieved so much more than he could have imagined.

While it would be easy to feel guilt for the pain he could have saved his comrade if he'd understood from the start, experience has taught him that no wisdom is gained until one's ready to receive it. It's in his nature to believe in the principle of man's autonomy, his right to chase away his demons as he chooses, whatever the cost. To do what he needs to survive.

It was only as the years passed, as Porthos realised that they – the three Inseparables – had slowly, seamlessly become family, that he started to feel Athos' suffering weigh almost as heavy upon his shoulders as it did upon Athos' own.

Then he acted.

He's known plenty of men who cope with life by crawling into a bottle – where he grew up, it was rarer for them not to – and the first time he put his hand over Athos' on the bottle's neck and said, "No, you've had enough," he had expected rebellion, belligerence, even fury. Not for Athos to drop his hand and his gaze as quickly as if he'd been burned, surrendering his drink without a word, and without surprise. Almost as if he'd been waiting for someone to step in.

In hindsight, it's obvious that he had.

And as with every unlikely turn of Fate's wheel, to look from that moment to this would make the path taken seem astonishing; but viewed frame by frame, lived day by day, it was as natural as the sunrise.

Athos is as quiet as Porthos has ever seen him tonight – and as still, as Porthos fastens the fine, wide leather cuffs around his wrists, lacing the straps together and buckling them firmly in the small of his back. They'd used a rope at first, but Porthos ventured one day into the city's bowels and found a tanner who did beautiful, discreet work. He doesn't know if Athos has really noticed, used to fine things; but to him they mean a lot. A sign of his care.

He stands, walks anti-clockwise around Athos' kneeling form, steps measured, and nudges the other man's thighs wider apart with the toe of his boot. This is a sign of his care, too: the position set, the order of movement ever-constant. Ritual, Aramis might call it, drawing them both into the pure present, sinking into the roles of caring and cared for.

Aramis knows nothing of what they do; which Porthos sometimes finds difficult, because he's an open person by nature, and keeps no other secrets. But ultimately, whether or not Aramis would like the idea (and Porthos feels he probably would), he would also not understand.

He would see it as a game, when nothing has ever been more serious.

But Porthos has forgotten himself for a moment, lost in the set of Athos' shoulders, his arched back, the hint of gold chain glinting at his collar; and as Athos shifts his weight in discomfort, he realises that is his cue.

He leans back against the edge of the table. "What have you eaten today?"

"Some of the roast at dinner1, and bread with that," Athos recites, eyes somewhere near the window. "Nothing else."

"And did you eat your fill?" Porthos continues, even though he already knows the answer; he was there, after all.

"…no. Maybe half a serving. I felt nauseous."

"But you ate it anyway?" he asks, softer this time.

"Yes." _For you_ , Athos doesn't say, never would; but Porthos feels an answering warmth in his chest just the same.

He's been furtively observing Athos all day, and from the grey cast to his skin, the yawns he tries to stifle, seeing him pick at his dinner, Porthos knows last night was a bad one. And that Athos will still eat now, even when he feels like death warmed up, is knowledge Porthos treasures.

"Good. I'm glad," he says gently, leaning forward to brush thumb and finger along Athos' jaw; the first time he's touched him this evening. "I've got soup for tonight."

Even Athos' worse days are still better than before; and Porthos doesn't think Athos wants to go back to that any more than he does. He remembers the ever-present pallor, wrong even on Athos' aristocratic white skin; the dizzy spells, him sometimes revealing that he didn't even remember when he'd last eaten, and still claiming not to be hungry. Surviving on nothing but drink for days at a time, then when he finally did eat something, being unable to keep it down more often than not, his abused system so unused to real sustenance.

No – this is better, by any yardstick.

Left to his own devices, Porthos suspects Athos would always drink too much and eat too little; and as someone who grew up treasuring every morsel, he can't really understand it, never will. But what he does know is that Athos will eat for him, because Porthos wants him to; and the heady cocktail of power and tenderness this knowledge fills him with is overwhelming.

During the months they've been doing this together, Porthos has slowly, gently pushed – first offering food, then insisting on it; watching Athos eat, before taking the fork from his hands and bringing it to Athos' lips himself – following his instincts where they lead him without caring about what it might mean. Holding his breath every time he suggests something new, waiting for Athos to object, to leave, to not return.

But Athos must be following some complementary instinct of his own, because he doesn't once object, doesn't walk away; and it seems this means as much to him as it does to Porthos. Though he says little, and gives away even less, Porthos senses that the deeper into these waters they wade together, the more at home they both find themselves.

Porthos goes back into the kitchen, leaving Athos alone for a few moments as he finds a clean bowl and ladles in soup from the pot that's keeping warm over the fire, the smell of cooked onion curling enticingly into his nostrils. He is hungry too; but Athos, as always, comes first.

Stepping back through the door, the sight takes his breath away for a moment. Athos on the floor in his shirtsleeves, the candlelight playing in the folds of the fabric, knees spread and head bowed, hands tied behind him; and something stirs low and wanting in Porthos' belly that he couldn't call hunger.

He places the full bowl on the table, careful to put it within Athos' line of sight; pulls a chair out and places it a foot from Athos' face, straddling the seat.

And then Porthos waits.

There is no rushing Athos, not that he would dare; when he's ready, he will raise his head, and then they will begin. Some days it takes longer than others; and if Porthos has gauged his mood correctly, then tonight it will be a little longer.

It's a few minutes before Athos finally meets his gaze; and tonight there's something dull, resigned in his eyes, that makes Porthos' heart a little heavier. While he wants nothing more than for Athos to approach this every time with just as much of the strange joy as he feels himself, he accepts that he can't always have that immediately. That sometimes what they do feels like a chore at first, until Athos has had time and space to calm, and to lay aside everything that weighs him down.

For Porthos, this is never a chore.

It's a fulfilment of something that was missing, that he hadn't realised he needed until he'd tasted it, and now can't imagine being able to do without.

He lets himself touch Athos' face, his jaw, caress along the line of his beard, lift his chin slightly with two fingers. He's learned that his touch seems to loosen Athos in the same way as kneeling, having his hands bound, in a way words do not.

Athos is still proud – the control he's allowing Porthos over something so fundamental notwithstanding – and Porthos never wants to let himself forget that Athos' gift to him is all the greater for precisely that reason.

Porthos removes his hand from Athos' chin before dipping a finger in the bowl and sucking it consideringly, deciding the soup has cooled just enough for them to begin.

He takes a spoonful in his right hand, pressing his left thumb to Athos' bottom lip. "Open up."

Athos' mouth falls obediently open, and Porthos tilts the spoon as he pushes it inside, watching his lips move forward around its neck, then pull back, Athos' jaw working as he chews the pieces of onion, the bobbing of his throat as he swallows.

It's mesmerising, every time.

"It's not too hot?" Porthos asks with an edge of worry, unnerved by the continuing silence, and the lines of tension still visible in Athos' face.

"No, it's fine," Athos replies shortly; and Porthos knows instinctively that he hasn't reached his place of sanctuary, that Porthos is being allowed this under sufferance, and not as he would have it, given freely and wanted by them both.

He knows this happens, sometimes, but it doesn't make it hurt any less.

"Close your eyes. Relax," Porthos croons, putting the spoon back in the bowl and pushing his hand into Athos' hair where it falls behind his ear, teasing through the strands, stroking as he would his mount.

And Athos lets himself be handled, his head coming to rest ever so lightly against Porthos' hand, even though this is still so new that Porthos is always half-fearful Athos will pull away, that he'll have crossed some unseen boundary.

When Athos opens his eyes again, Porthos sees in them the depth and vulnerability that he's been waiting for; and it's beautiful.

"Good, that's good," he says again, pressing his hand just under Athos' jawbone again, caressing for a moment, unable to help himself. "More?"

Athos nods, and Porthos picks up the spoon again, bringing another mouthful of soup to his lips.

As ever, Porthos feeds Athos slowly and steadily, not wanting it to be over too soon, not wanting his friend to close again around this vulnerable, unguarded part of himself that nobody but Porthos gets to see.

When a drop of soup misses Athos' mouth and rolls down his chin, and Porthos dabs at it with a handkerchief that he laid out especially for this evening, his heart swells with fierce love.

Despite his measured pace, it doesn't seem long before the bowl is nearly empty; Athos is doing well today, or at least, he's trying.

"Enough," Athos says then, turning his face away to illustrate the point.

"There's only one more spoonful's worth in the bowl," Porthos coaxes. "Won't you finish it?"

"Alright," Athos replies with a faint smile, allowing Porthos to scrape the last of the soup onto his spoon and feed it to him, chewing the pieces of onion and swallowing them down.

He dabs at the corners of Athos' mouth with the handkerchief, though it's not really necessary; but this is a part of their ritual now, as is the way Athos lets his head fall again to his chest, just as still as before, but this time peaceful.

Porthos places a hand on Athos' head as if in benediction, his own hunger forgotten; vowing to himself there and then, with a surprising rush of emotion, that he will care for Athos in whatever way he needs, as long Athos will let him.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 What Athos calls "dinner" was then the main meal of the day, eaten between noon and mid-afternoon.


End file.
